


Five Times Draco Malfoy's Sniveling Cowardice Inadvertently Saved the Wizarding World

by Kantayra



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid the irritating buzz of the wizarding world at war, Draco Malfoy valiantly attempts to make do with inferior bath products, substandard pastries, and increasingly frequent twitchy looks from that git Potter. Only the world's tiniest violin can truly appreciate the depths of Draco's suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Draco Malfoy's Sniveling Cowardice Inadvertently Saved the Wizarding World

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to kallysten for proof-reading and hand-holding and hils for valiantly slaying all my Americanisms. Anything that's still wrong with this fic is solely a product of my diseased brain. Thanks also to monster_o_love for the [awesome fanart](http://monster-o-love.livejournal.com/7999.html) for this fic!

The summons came at high noon on the summer solstice.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!” Draco immediately started panicking.

“Stop it,” Nott complained. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Ohmigod, ohmigod!” Draco gasped.

“But, Draco,” Pansy looked puzzled, “haven’t you been waiting for this? We join the Dark Lord and destroy the filthy Mudbloods once and for all?”

“ _OHMIGOD!_ ”

“Your face is turning blue.” Goyle scratched his head. “At least, I think so. It’s hard to tell through the Floo flames.”

“You should probably breathe soon,” Crabbe added helpfully.

Draco tried to heave in a breath of air, but he was hyperventilating too hard, so instead he just wheezed piteously and collapsed back against the sofa, clutching at his sides.

Blaise, in the final fire of their Floo conference call, looked annoyed at this. “Are we going to the initiation ceremony tonight or not?” he asked petulantly. “Because my family has haunted-symphony tickets.”

And that set Draco off all over again. There would be no more haunted symphonies. There would be no more Quidditch games. There would be no more outings to bakeries or knitting tea cozies or afternoons spent at his mother’s favorite hairdresser. Instead, there was going to be killing and blood and gory stuff that made Draco’s stomach upset. “Ohmi _god_!” he squeaked. “I don’t think I can be a Death Eater! I think I have an _allergy_!”

Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed to comprehend that this was unlikely. “Is that possible?” Goyle wondered ponderously, which was a state Goyle had never really experienced before.

“Oh, Draco, stop whining!” Pansy snapped.

“I-I’m not whining.” Draco came back to himself a bit at the thought of his Slytherin classmates in active revolt against him. “It’s my asthma. I can’t handle this much stimulation.”

“Yes, Salazar forbid something should actually _stimulate_ Draco,” Blaise rolled his eyes.

Draco glared at him. “Blaise?”

“Yes?”

“Shut it.”

Thankfully, the power of the Malfoy sneer was fully intact, and Blaise did.

“I’m confused,” Crabbe said. That put everyone back into a proper sense of business-as-usual.

Draco ran a hand through his hair to straighten it out after his little _episode_ , since he refused to think of it as a panic attack. “I have several lines of inquiry to pursue. We’ll resume this call in an hour’s time, after I’ve formulated a proper plan.”

The others fell back into line now that Draco seemed in control again, and the conference call ended. Draco breathed a sigh of relief and turned immediately to his foolproof back-up plan:

“Mother!” he yelled and ran through the halls of Malfoy Manor in the direction of his mother’s suites. “ _Mother_!”

“Yes, darling?” Narcissa looked up from her novel with an adoring smile on her face.

“They want me to be a _Death Eater_ , mother!” Draco whined and started panicking all over again. “There’s going to be _fighting_ , a-and blood, and _what if I get Muggle blood in my HAIR_!” Draco nearly passed out at the notion.

“My poor, sweet, little dragon,” Narcissa cooed and took Draco in her arms, even though he was quite comically larger than she was these days. “Mother will make it all better, I promise.”

Draco sniffled a little. “I won’t have to be a Death Eater?”

“Of course not, my precious serpentling.”

“Because I think I’ve got an allergy…”

“We’ll get a note from St. Mungo’s to that effect.”

“And asthma…”

“Don’t worry.” Narcissa pressed a kiss to Draco’s perfect, silky hair, and really it _would_ be a crime against nature if something as mundane as a world-wide, genocidal war messed up such lovely follicles. “I’ll keep you safe. Everything will be all right. There, there.”

Draco hummed contentedly when his mother petted his glorious hair.

“There, there.”

An hour later, Draco faced the rest of his Slytherin classmates with a superior, contemptuous sneer. “My sources have panned out,” he informed them smugly. “We will not be risking our extremely valuable, pureblood lives in the upcoming war.”

“Oh?” Pansy blinked at him. “Then where _are_ we going?”

“My mother’s family has an Unplottable home at Grimmauld Place,” Draco informed her imperiously. “We will safely sit out the war there. Our elves have already begun to clear the place out.”

What Draco _didn’t_ know, of course, was that the elves caused quite a commotion among the Order of the Phoenix, who already inhabited the place. However, Dumbledore, strange as he was, concluded that it was a simply wonderful idea to invite the entire Slytherin class into the Order’s secret headquarters for the remainder of the summer. The conversation went like this:

“Why on earth should we let _Malfoy_ stay here?” Ron Weasley said in wide-eyed disgust. “He’s a complete, yellow-bellied coward.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in a way that made everyone want to beat their heads against the nearest hard surface. “We have no shortage of bravery in this house, Mr. Weasley. Rather, I think Mr. Malfoy will do wonders for lightening the spirits of our troops.”

“Whose spirits would possibly be lightened by _Malfoy’s_ presence?” Potter protested.

Dumbledore’s eyes just twinkled some more.

Narcissa knew all this had happened, of course, but she didn’t tell Draco because, as much as she loved her adorable, perfect son, even she had to acknowledge that he was a bit of a drama queen and would put up a fuss if things didn’t always go exactly his way.

“So that’s final,” Draco concluded pompously before his circle of minions. “Let’s all meet at the Manor, say, eight-ish?”

“But my haunted-symphony tickets!” Blaise bemoaned.

“Oh, stop whining,” Draco ordered without the slightest hint of irony.

That evening, the next generation of Slytherins unknowingly defected right into the arms of the Order of the Phoenix. Word spread fast in pureblood circles, and by the time the journey was made, it wasn’t just Draco’s group of friends, but the entire house that escaped.

Two days later, of course, was the Battle of West Berkshire in which the Ministry’s forces were so infamously devastated. Although wizarding-war historians would continue to argue the matter for centuries to come, it was fairly universally accepted that, had Voldemort only had twenty or so more wizards along the southern front, the Ministry’s Aurors would never have stood a chance of breaking through to escape and fight another day.

Of course, Draco didn’t care about any of that. He cared more about the fact that he had to jinx that git Potter’s doorknob shut every night before Draco went to bed so that he could beat Potter to the bathroom the next morning and have time to properly tend to his hair before breakfast. For reasons Draco couldn’t fathom, Potter took _forever_ in the bathroom in the morning, even though his hair was still an atrocious nightmare when he emerged. Really, Draco decided, Potter was a menace to society.

***

Draco had fully intended to stay far from harm’s way until the war ended. He and his mother spent their days at 12 Grimmauld Place crocheting, while various Order members trudged through the hallways, covered in mud and blood and remnants of nasty hexes.

Every so often the Order members – and especially that git Potter – would glare at the Malfoys’ bucolic, domestic life amidst the savagery of war. At times like those, Narcissa liked to thank them please not to drip blood on the carpets, since those were very rare antiques, and Draco would stick out his tongue – especially at that git Potter, yet again.

Other former Slytherin students slowly caved in to the judging looks around them: Pansy aided the Mediwizards, and Crabbe and Goyle helped with the heavy lifting, and Blaise assisted in the kitchen, and Nott even fought in a battle or two. But Malfoys were better than that. Malfoys were not constrained by such lowly emotions as guilty consciences. And so Draco had remained safely oblivious to the fact that there really was a war occurring outside.

Until, of course, Voldemort attacked Grimmauld Place.

Draco reacted with perfect, pureblood decorum, of course, which consisted of running in the opposite direction as fast as he could, flailing pointless hexes blindly back over his head, and screaming “AAAHHHH!” at the top of his lungs the whole while.

Back at Grimmauld Place, curses and jinxes flew as Voldemort’s first wave battled to the death with the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort’s crushing plan, which none of the Order knew about, was that a second wave, consisting of his innermost wizarding core and his giant brigade, was on their way.

However, 12 Grimmauld Place _was_ Unplottable, so the backup division’s only way of attacking was to follow the sounds of battle. In the distance, to the north, truly epic screaming could be heard, accompanied by random flashes of light in the air. Such dreadful cries could only come from victims of the Death Eaters’ most tortuous curses, and so the backup brigade set off for the source of the extremely loud, extremely flashy noise.

It took Voldemort’s backup forces a good ten minutes to realize that the ‘battle’ they were following seemed to be fleeing Grimmauld Place at an astonishing rate. The realization came too late, of course, and by that time they turned around on their brooms to find the site of the _real_ battle, the Order had already defeated the first wave and was ready to meet them head-on.

Voldemort’s backup brigade beat a hasty retreat. Scholars for years to come would appreciate the “brilliant strategic diversion.” And Harry Potter’s eye twitched before he shouted out, “Accio Draco Malfoy!”

Draco was still screaming and trying to run away by the time he collided bodily back into Potter’s wand, and they fell to the ground in a tangled heap, Draco still thrashing for his life the whole time until Potter finally sat on him and covered Draco’s mouth with his hand. Honestly, Potter had no manners _at all_.

“I’m not sure if that was pathetic or bloody brilliant,” the Weasel laughed, and Draco was reminded that _he_ didn’t have any manners _either_.

Draco glared at them all and then, in a fit a pique, licked Potter’s palm, so that Potter leapt back off him and started screaming about how he was tainted for life. Draco calmly stood and adjusted his robes and hair in a mature, sophisticated manner. “Is that all, then?” he asked. “I was just about to run my bubble bath.”

The Order gaped at him a lot.

Draco had a lovely bubble bath, even if that uncouth Potter _was_ banging on the door and screaming at him the entire time. That wasn’t anything a good locking charm and some Debussy couldn’t drown out, however. The only problem, Draco decided, was that he’d run out of his favorite lilac shampoo and had to settle for vanilla.

Also, when he finally emerged, he discovered that the phrase “quicker than a Malfoy from battle” had become a new idiom among the Order members.

It was an abysmal day, indeed.

***

After the Battle of Grimmauld Place, the Order was forced to move to the Diggorys’ home. For once, Draco was more than happy to help with the move, entirely because he didn’t trust the house elves to properly purge all the Hufflepuff stench from his room.

When he told Potter this, Potter flew into an irrational rage, and they ended up wrestling on the floor for a good half hour, and Draco’s hair became slightly mussed, which was absolutely unacceptable. Obviously, Potter was deranged and should be committed to St. Mungo’s, and then Draco wouldn’t have to share the bathroom with him anymore. Potter was clearly close to losing it, if the way his eye started twitching every time Draco ran into him was any indication.

This all came to a head one day in August when Potter returned from the supermarket with croissants. Bear in mind, these weren’t _real_ croissants; these were croissants that Potter had bought in a _shop_. They were, in short, ‘croissants.’ Draco turned green at the sight.

Potter’s eye twitched when he spotted Draco in the kitchen, _gaping_ at the purchases Potter had just set on the table. “What?” Potter snapped.

“ _What_ , indeed.” Draco reeled in horror. “What _are_ those… _things_?”

Potter gave him a look like he was mentally incompetent, which just proved how mentally incompetent _Potter_ was. “Croissants,” Potter answered drily. “You eat them. They’re delicious. Want one?” He tore open some sort of strange, transparent, Muggle shield around the abominations in question and threw one at Draco.

“Eek!” Draco squeaked and ducked under the table.

The ‘croissant’ splatted against the wall, and Draco peeked over the tabletop just in time to see Potter aiming _another_ one of the things at him. This one bounced right off the top of his head before landing in the sink.

“Ahh! My _hair_!” Draco screamed.

“Serves you right,” Potter said viciously. It was just _more_ proof (which Draco hadn’t even needed) that Potter was unhinged. Potter picked up another ‘croissant’ and was about to take a bite out of it.

“Are you _mocking_ me?” Draco huffed.

“Of course not. Why on earth would anyone mock _you_?”

“Insane, I know.” Draco checked his reflection in the window pane to make _sure_ his hair was all right. “But some people have no sense of—” He turned back to face Potter and saw that Potter actually had the gall to _snicker_ at him. “W-Why you!” Draco sputtered in indignation. “You think this is _funny_?”

“Malfoy, you’re even afraid of _pastries_. Yes, I bloody well think it’s funny.” Potter moved once more to take a deliberate first bite out of his ‘croissant,’ while Draco’s lip curled in horrified disgust.

“Are you mad? Just _look at_ what those Muggle monstrosities did to the wall!” Draco pointed to where an acidic hole had burned through the wallpaper.

Potter stopped just as his teeth touched the ‘croissant,’ his eyes widened, and he spat it back out. “Gah!” he exclaimed.

“Who’s laughing now?” Draco insisted primly, arms folded across his chest. “That’s what you get for eating Muggle food. I heard they have stomachs like giants.”

Potter had been freaking out at the ‘croissant’ he’d almost bitten into, but he looked up at Draco in disbelief at that. “Draco, you do know that Muggle food doesn’t contain acid, right?”

“I most certainly do _not_ know such a thing,” Draco huffed. “And if you inform me, I’ll do my best to forget it immediately.”

Potter’s eye was twitching again. “I’m going to go get Snape and Lupin. Don’t eat anything while I’m gone, all right?”

Draco stuck his nose up firmly in the air. “Like there was any danger of _that_.”

Potter’s eye twitched again, and he ran off.

It turned out half the food Potter had picked up was poisoned, which didn’t surprise Draco in the slightest, as he informed everyone at length.

“He’s a sociopath,” Draco insisted. “That’s what comes from living with Muggles, you know. He probably wanted to poison us all as a sacrifice to that Telly Visual I’ve heard they all worship.”

Everyone else ignored Draco and decided to track down whichever Muggle in the shop had been under the Imperius curse to poison them all. Draco didn’t mind so much because, while he still had to share a bathroom with Potter at their new headquarters, at least they’d had to abandon that horrible Diggory place.

Draco never quite _had_ been able to get out all the Hufflepuff stench.

***

Two months into the war, Draco finally couldn’t take it anymore.

“I can’t take it anymore!” he exclaimed dramatically that morning when he found himself behind Potter, the Weasel, _and_ Granger in line for the bathroom.

Potter, the Weasel, and Granger blinked at him in disbelief. They were all covered in some icky, black sludge, which must have meant they were out all night on some stupid Order mission, which was how they managed to beat Draco to the bathroom this morning. As Draco stood, tapping his foot and waiting for sympathy, Potter’s eye started twitching again.

“That’s it!” Draco snarled. “I’ve had it! I have to share a bathroom with Gryffindors, and I can’t buy my favorite shampoo here, and there are substandard, Muggle pastries in the kitchen again, and everyone is too preoccupied with this _stupid_ war to even _care_!”

Potter, the Weasel, and Granger all blinked at him again. They must’ve practiced to do that in unison so well, which meant they were wasting time practicing their _blinking_ , rather than searching for Draco’s favorite, imported bubble bath. It was just _too much_!

“Oh, this is just _too much_!” that Mudblood Granger snapped, entirely missing the point. And then she transfigured Draco’s favorite loofah into a tiny violin and charmed it so that it started playing directly over his right shoulder.

“W-What is _this_?” Draco demanded.

“You need one,” Granger informed him and stalked off. “Come on,” she gestured to Potter and the Weasel. “I don’t want to have to share a bathroom with a _Slytherin_.”

Potter and the Weasel actually _laughed_ at Draco and his tiny violin and headed off after the Mudblood.

Draco stood in place, hands balled into fists, and _seethed_. “How am I supposed to bathe with only my two _backup loofahs_?” he demanded.

His tiny violin struck a mournful note over his shoulder.

With a long-suffering sigh, Draco was forced to make do with only the two backup loofahs, his second favorite shampoo scent, and only his _third_ favorite bubble bath, which wasn’t anywhere near foamy enough. However, he had to concede that his new tiny violin _did_ do a very good job covering up the screams downstairs from the Mediwizards working on whichever idiot managed to get themselves cursed _this_ time. Draco was almost relaxed when the flame from one the scented candles he’d brought from Malfoy Manor flared to life.

Draco sputtered and dropped his loofah when his father’s face appeared in the patchouli-lavender candle. Draco had entirely forgotten that the scented candles had special, emergency Floo-charms on them, since they were clearly the first thing any Malfoy would grab when on the run.

“Father!” Draco ducked down into the bubbles until only his head was visible. “Not while I’m exfoliating!”

“There’s a time when you’re not exfoliating?” Lucius said drolly.

The invisible hand that was bowing Draco’s tiny violin played a melancholy little dirge.

Lucius frowned. “What is that?”

“It’s the world’s tiniest violin,” Draco explained. “It’s charmed to follow me around and play only for me.”

“I…see.” Draco could actually _see_ the jealousy in his father’s eyes. “An ingenious charm…”

“A Mudblood did it,” Draco pouted. The music from his tiny violin swelled.

Lucius’ lip curled. “I mean, filthy thing. Far too commonplace for any Malfoy!”

Draco nodded in vigorous agreement.

“In any case,” Lucius drawled, “we won’t have to worry ourselves about the Mudbloods much longer.”

“Oh?” Draco squeaked. Frankly, he was more worried about his father hexing his hair off—no, that was too cruel: his balls off.

“You have nothing to be concerned about,” Lucius reassured him. “I’m not upset. Given the circumstances at the time, it was entirely prudent of you and your mother to go into hiding. However, now that I have been freed from that abysmal island, I am able once more to ensure that you are given your proper place among the Dark Lord’s disciples.”

Draco gulped. “B-But…I won’t have to…you know…” Draco squirmed a bit in the bathwater.

Lucius sighed wearily. “I have informed you time and again, Draco, that I know at least half a dozen good charms for keeping Muggle blood out of hair.”

“What about Muggle _guts_?” Draco paled. “Will there be Muggle guts?”

“There will be _Draco_ guts if you don’t take this assignment,” Lucius snapped, shutting Draco up quite effectively. “That’s better. Now, your proper initiation will be this evening. Barnsley, midnight sharp.”

“B-B…”

“ _Don’t_ be late,” Lucius warned before his visage went up in smoke and a lovely patchouli-lavender scent filled the bathroom once more.

Draco lay back in the water and pondered whether his bubble bath could generate enough suds to hide him from the world for the remainder of the war. But then, he realized, his toes and fingers would get wrinkly, and that was just gross.

Draco slipped out of the bathroom two hours later, wrapped in plush towels and a fluffy dressing-gown, with a clear plan in mind. He unjinxed the door to Potter’s room, tiptoed inside, and hid himself in the wardrobe. There, he sniffled himself to sleep, while his tiny violin played “Woe Is Woe” by the Emo Were-Emus.

He was woken up at half past midnight by Potter and the Weasel trudging into their room like great, galumphing gargoyles.

“—Get a Gringott’s vault like any _normal_ wizard?” the Weasel was complaining.

“They’re fragments of his soul, Ron,” Potter sounded just as irate. “Did you really think it would be that—?” At that moment, Potter opened the wardrobe door, and Draco looked up in horror to realize that 1) Potter and the Weasel had both stripped themselves down to their boxers, and 2) Potter was about to drop the smelly, filthy robes he’d been wearing right on top of Draco.

“Ahhhh!” screamed Draco.

“Ahhhh!” screamed Potter.

“Ahhhh!” screamed the Weasel.

“Screeeech!” screamed the tiny violin over Draco’s shoulder.

Potter got hold of himself first. “Malfoy, what the hell are you doing in my wardrobe?”

“Ahhhh!” Draco screamed some more when he noticed that one blob of murky, brown goo from Potter’s robes was dangerously close to dripping on his head.

“So, I guess it’s _not_ an ambush, then,” the Weasel was laughing at Draco again.

The drop of sludge glistened in the lamplight. Draco squeezed his eyes shut tight, unable to bear the sight any longer. “Ahhhh!” Draco screamed again, just in case he hadn’t been perfectly clear the first two times.

Potter threw his robes onto the floor, and the drop of goo missed Draco by a hair. Draco gulped down at the filthy droplet on the floor between his bare feet. Then, Potter grabbed him viciously by the shoulders of his dressing-gown, yanked him out of the closet, and flung him brutishly back onto the bed.

Draco’s eyes went wild as his dressing-gown fell open down to the waist. Surely Potter wouldn’t…? Not in front of the _Weasel_ , right? To Draco’s horror, he felt his cheeks warm up to what was no doubt an unsightly color at the thought of Potter ravaging him in one of his fits of rage. Draco’s violin began playing a frantic _agitato_ in response to Draco’s thoughts.

“What were you doing in our wardrobe, Malfoy?” Potter demanded, holding Draco down so that he couldn’t squirm away. And given that the both of them were nearly naked, Draco was doing quite a lot of squirming, indeed.

“N-Nothing,” Draco insisted. “Is this your room? I thought it was mine.”

“A likely story.” The Weasel tried to sneer, and Draco was reminded that Weasels should never, ever sneer, because Draco was having a hard time not laughing, which just seemed to enrage Potter further, and Draco really didn’t want to be trapped under a barking-mad, mostly nude, teenaged wizard on a bed, especially given how irresistibly handsome Draco was.

Potter’s wand poked Draco in the nose. “Spill. _Now_.”

Draco found himself deeply torn. After all, if he told Potter about the Death Eater raid, then the Dark Lord would kill him painfully. But if he _didn’t_ tell Potter about the Death Eater raid, then _Potter_ would kill him painfully and possibly have his wicked way with him as well.

In the end, Potter would have the opportunity to kill him _first_ , so Draco’s self-preservation weighed in on the side of Dumbledore’s Army. “M-My father contacted me this morning, and there’s going to be a Death Eater raid, and—”

Potter’s wand moved down to point at Draco’s throat, like that would make him talk faster. “ _Where_?”

“B-B-B-Barnsley,” Draco managed to get out.

Potter’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in suspiciously.

 _This is it_ , Draco thought, squeezing his eyes tight. _Just lie back and think of Salazar. Or possibly how built Potter is under his robes._ The tiny violin on Draco’s shoulder let out a few romantic refrains. _No!_ Draco corrected mentally. _Do NOT think about how Potter looks under his robes. This is a great, noble sacrifice that I am making for the future survival of the Malfoy name. And…what on earth is taking Potter so long?_

Upon opening his eyes, Draco discovered that all and sundry had rushed to Potter’s room at the sounds of screaming, and now a wide array of Draco’s professors, classmates, and a few Aurors to boot, were all gaping at the sight of Draco in his white, fur dressing-gown lying beneath Potter, who was wearing only his boxers.

Draco squeaked, pulled his dressing-gown closed again, and shut his legs—and, really, how had _those_ ended up spread like that in the first place?

Quite a lot of chaos followed, in which accusations were thrown about all willy-nilly, eventually news of the raid reached the Order, and Draco’s mother threatened to hex Potter’s balls off if he ever tried to force himself on Draco again. Potter seemed thoroughly bewildered by all of this.

What it all meant was that the Order didn’t actually _reach_ Barnsley until well after one, which was just as well because Barnsley had been a trap to begin with. In fact, the Death Eaters, who had been waiting in ambush, fell asleep on the job and were easily apprehended.

“I don’t know what Lucius Malfoy was thinking,” the Weasel taunted while Draco was in hearing range the next day. “Like the Ferret would ever have the guts to rat the Death Eaters out in time.”

Draco bristled.

“Clearly,” Narcissa said archly, “my husband was well aware of the course of actions Draco would take and set this up deliberately so that Draco and I would not have to alienate either side.”

Draco smirked smugly at the Weasel at that.

The Weasel snorted, like the idea was ridiculous, and Draco bristled again. Didn’t the Weasel _realize_ that Draco’s father was a brilliant, manipulative mastermind, and that everything that happened in the entire wizarding world was the result of Lucius’ careful machinations? Except, of course, for that one time Lucius got sent to Azkaban…

“Come now, Draco,” Narcissa herded him away from the oncoming confrontation. “I need your advice on some lace patterns.”

Once his mother got him alone, however, she confessed, “I just didn’t like the way that Potter was ogling you.”

Draco, to his eternal horror (and denial), blushed at the thought.

***

Up until the final battle, Draco had been exceptionally proud of how he’d kept out of the fighting entirely. This was why it was so upsetting when Draco was actually _ordered_ , point blank, by Kingsley Shacklebolt himself no less, to get his sorry behind onto the battlefield.

Well, not _quite_ the battlefield. Draco, with his absolutely non-existent battle experience, was actually supposed to help with the Mediwizards, which Draco thought was a particularly poor idea because he had several bad past experiences with fainting at the sight of blood.

Nevertheless, there he was, forcibly apparated into a whole lot of screaming (that wasn’t even entirely his) and blood (which, thank Salazar, really _wasn’t_ his). Draco’s job was mostly to accio fresh towels and bandages. Just when he thought he might not die from such a demeaning task, some idiot decided to shift the battle in the direction of the medical tents, and suddenly there were hexes flying all around Draco.

He ducked and cowered under one of the beds, while Snape and Aunt Bellatrix dueled right over his head. Then he heard Potter yelling, and soon everyone was yelling, and someone accio’ed the bed Draco was hiding under to block a dark curse, and when Draco looked up, he was literally at the Dark Lord’s feet.

Draco blanched, the Dark Lord looked down, and Draco _took off_. Even he knew he wasn’t fast enough this time, though, but then that survival instinct, carefully honed throughout the Malfoy generations, kicked in, and Draco did the smartest thing imaginable.

“Avada Ke—”

He dove straight behind Potter for cover.

“—davra!”

Potter only had a split second to think between the moment Draco dove behind him with his arms up in an ancient, time-honored, pureblood defensive stance – which, purely coincidentally, looked exactly like the Muggle, “Not in the face! Not in the face!” gesture – and the time the Dark Lord delivered the Killing Curse. So, naturally, Potter did what any idiotic Gryffindor would do:

He _blocked_ the bloody thing.

Draco winced as Potter’s arms wrapped around him, tight and strong and protective, and then a horrible green light flashed all around them and was, almost as quickly, gone.

Draco blinked up.

Potter blinked down.

Draco blinked again because how on earth could Potter be blinking?

Potter started blinking quite a lot, probably for exactly the same reason. Finally, Potter turned around to find the Dark Lord lying dead on the ground, destroyed by his own curse.

“W-What happened?” Draco whimpered, burying his face in Potter’s robes.

It took several dozen experts in curses, countercurses, and protection spells a solid five months to conclude that, if sacrificing yourself for someone you loved could protect them against the Killing Curse, then sacrificing yourself for someone you absolutely _hated_ was at least tenfold more powerful.

At that moment, though, Potter didn’t seem worried about that. “Who cares? He’s dead. It’s over.”

Draco nodded numbly. He was still clutching Potter’s robes like a lifeline.

“Malfoy?” Potter waved a hand in front of Draco’s face. “You can let go now.”

“Oh,” Draco blinked. “Right.” His hands didn’t release Potter’s robes, though. How odd…

“Malfoy?” Potter repeated, but his voice was rougher, wilder this time.

“What?” Draco demanded as snootily as he could.

“You have been driving me out of my mind for months now, and if you don’t get your pretty, little arse away from me right now, I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Potter?” Draco sneered. “Remember, you owe me for your life just now.”

Potter looked absolutely bewildered by this statement, like _Draco_ was the one who was out of his mind, rather than vice versa.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a bubble bath. I think I got some dirt under my fingernails.” Draco frowned down at his hands where they still clutched at Potter’s robes.

Potter made a sound like a teakettle about to blow, and then Draco screeched when Potter lifted him up right by his pretty, little arse and carried him bodily over to the nearest copse of trees amid what had so recently been the last battlefield.

“What are you doing?” Draco flailed in Potter’s arms and tried to wriggle his way free. In the course of his wriggling, he accidentally wriggled down against something long and hard, which was poking right up at him. He yelped and wrapped his legs high around Potter’s midsection to prevent _that_ from happening again.

Potter’s eyes rolled back in his head. “ _Fuck_!” He slammed Draco against the nearest tree trunk, and while Draco was still reeling, he slammed his lips down onto Draco’s just for good measure.

Draco dimly thought that this must be what a Dementor’s kiss felt like. If, of course, the Dementor were trying to shag him through a tree trunk, rather than sucking out his soul. Draco’s head ground against the bark, and he tried to inform Potter, “Mind the hair!” but instead it same out as “Mmm mm mmph!” and then Potter took the opportunity to shove his tongue into Draco’s mouth.

Draco couldn’t think of anything to say at that point, and the tiny violin over his shoulder decided, disturbingly, to start playing a polka.

Draco renewed his efforts to break free at the sound, but then Potter nuzzled him behind the ear and discovered the four magic words to convince any Malfoy to put out: “Your hair smells nice.”

“Really?” Draco might have swooned a little. “I mean, of course it does,” he hastily amended. The polka picked up in speed in response, but this time Draco didn’t try to pull away.

“Is it going to play like that the whole time?” Potter laughed against Draco’s throat.

“I expect so,” Draco sighed.

Then Potter was _biting_ , and his hands were under Draco’s robes, and somehow Draco was lying on the ground in the bushes with Potter on top of him. And, if the sounds coming from their right were any indication, they weren’t the only ones celebrating the sanctity of life after the conclusion of the war.

“I hate you,” Potter informed Draco affectionately, wrestling him back down onto his fallen robes and worming his way between Draco’s thighs.

“Well, _I_ hate _you_ even _more_ ,” Draco insisted, and then he really should have just been lying back and thinking of Salazar, except _he_ wanted to bite Potter everywhere, too. What followed looked more like a snarling, hissing, fighting mess than even the most frenzied fucking.

Afterwards, Draco lay back numbly, staring at the stars above. He _really_ needed a bubble bath and probably a manicure, too, but Potter was unconscious on top of him so, just for a few moments, he let Potter sleep. After all, Draco considered himself exceptionally heroic for braving the clutches of an obviously deranged wizard of incredible power.

As if to mock Draco’s self-congratulations, Potter nuzzled Draco’s throat and made little humming noises. Potter clearly didn’t know how to behave properly like a savage beast.

“Wake up.” Draco poked Potter in the cheek.

Potter grumbled a little. “What?”

“I don’t feel that you’re fully appreciative of the sacrifice I’ve made here tonight,” Draco huffed.

Potter blinked at him, said “mmm,” and nibbled Draco’s earlobe.

“Stop that!” Draco squirmed. “I’ve made a very important contribution here—”

“Mmm,” Potter repeated and slid his hand between Draco’s thighs again.

“—And I feel that recognition is deserved. Order of Merlin, First Class, at the very least.” Draco tried kicking a little to keep Potter’s hand away from his sensitive bits; he’d recently discovered that he lost all thought processes when Potter compromised him in that way.

“Wait,” Potter chuckled, “you want an award for being a spectacular shag?”

“No,” Draco batted at Potter’s roving hands, “I want an award for being the only one with enough sense to spot how dramatically you’ve been unraveling. If it had gone on much longer, who’s to say whether you would’ve become the next Dark Lord?”

Potter nipped Draco right on the tip of his nose. “You’re funny.”

“Ow! I am most certainly _not_ funny, and what’s that? What are you…? Hey, I’m quite upset here, and I—”

Draco’s tiny violin strummed wildly.

“Oh, _Harry_!”

The exact reasons why Draco Malfoy was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, the next day were never clearly written down. However, Harry Potter, who sponsored the appointment, insisted that Draco had earned the recognition “at least five times over.”


End file.
